TEX. 



J. H. SMITH. 



"Your hoss your pard," says the cowboy 

 code, 



And Tex, of Big Antelope creek, 

 Would wager his pile on a hoss he rode 



Tho' the hoss couldn't run a lick. 



"Your hoss your pard," is a fair decree, 

 And in that we will all concur; 



Yet Tex was evidence that idee 

 Kin be kerried a lot too fur. 



He went back East for a wife, you know, 

 And brought a bay filly instead. 



"Couldn't fetch both ; didn't have the 

 dough, 

 So I sure took the colt," he said. 



She could sliver the record on demand, 

 That mare o' his hadn't a match ; 



You bet she peppered the clouds with 

 sand 

 Sure as ever she left the scratch. 



She ranged the creek with the saddle herd 

 Across from his shack one fall. 



A puncher is mostly a keerless bird, 

 And Tex, he was worst of 'em all. 



For with grazing stock about them days, 

 It was frequently on the bills, 



For the Sioux to mix 'em in a haze 

 And go foggin' among the hills. 



On a sudden they hit the Big Antelope, 

 Tho' we didn't expect 'em there; 



So I got the broncs off the picket rope, 

 There bein' no time to spare. 



Tex jumped the canoe and fanned her 

 away 



In the face o' that howling pack; 

 He'd fastened his eye on his little bay, 



Couldn't nobody call him back. 



The saddle bunch flashed at the Injuns' 

 squall, 

 Sure to go buckwild at that ; 

 But the mare come quick at her owner's 

 call 

 More than half way down the flat. 



His hand in her mane and like a shot 

 She was off e'er he lit astride; 



The red devils' guns were crackin' hot 

 As she peeled for the other side. 



From a gumbo bank 8 foot in height, 

 To the water she split the air — 



No angel flyin's a purtier sight — 

 Till the spray concealed the pair. 



The mare showed first, then her rider's 

 head, 



His face lookin' pale and strange. 

 I saveyed at once the Indian's lead 



Was takin' him over the range. 



He hung to her tail till she swam across, 

 And says he with his eyes ablurr, 



"Man might do worse 'n die fur his hoss ; 

 Anyways fur a hoss like her." 



Weary Wraggles — Hey! You won't git 

 nothin' decent in dere. Dem people is vege- 

 tarians. 



Hungry Hank — Is dat right? 



Weary Wraggles — Yes, an' dey got a dog 

 w'at ain't. — Philadelphia Press. 



335 



